


Take the World Out of My Eyes

by tzigane



Category: Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Altered Mental States, Drugs, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-24
Updated: 2010-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps it is far better never to know some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take the World Out of My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caffiends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/gifts).



Take the World Out of My Eyes

The world of the mind is a multi-structured creation, rooms within rooms, castles and chateaux with connecting loggias, spires that strike upwards and penetrate the deep blue of the overarching sky. Each mansion, every villa, is unique here, and often the pathways between them are blocked by overgrown planters of wisteria, rambling roses, a variety of lovely and destructive verdure which tears away at columns, bringing brick and marble and stone to its knees over time.

There is one pathway that is clear in all of this, and if one were to approach it, one could inspect the boards, the paint, the nails. It is out of place, connected as it is to the palace standing on the hill that rises nearby. This footpath is well-tended, and only gently touched by honeysuckle and morning glory. The boards show signs of steady usage upon observation of the wear in the paint, although one could never tell if the steps came more often from the neat cottage by the beach or the manor on the hill.

Perhaps it is far better never to know some things.

* * *

  
He had been sleeping.

That he remembered quite clearly; sleeping because he had been injured. Will Graham was accustomed to that state of being, to the discomfort which accompanied injury and the necessary ways of dealing with it. Somewhere along the way, that had changed.

Remembering and being aware of probabilities, possibilities, were entirely separate things. His memories were unclear at best, jumbled together in small rooms in his head. Sometimes, he walked through them and a box or three would tumble down, jumble together on the floor. Something would shake loose, and for a day or perhaps four, he would find that he felt withdrawn, or sad, or sometimes even angry.

A common person would possibly avoid him at such times. A typical individual would conceivably ask him what was wrong, or offer assistance. His companion was not, in fact, normal in the least. Often he simply received amused glances and fond touches on those days, and then the world became a fog. Once again he would slumber, and wake to find that those snarled up things had found their way back into carelessly piled stacks. Another fall was foreordained, but Will was habituated to that as well.

"Shall we go to the Jardín Botánico this evening, Will? It will be open for el Noche del Museos, and I know that you find it soothing."

Yes. Soothing was just the word, although he sometimes found that he hadn't the nerve to face leaving the house, precisely. Still, he had a fondness for the cats that made the trip agreeable. "That would be nice." Pleasant, because things often were. It was almost as if to make up for something, although Will could never recall exactly what that might be.

" _Falstaff_ will be playing at the Teatro Colón beginning in two weeks." The touch on the back of his neck was gentle, and Will looked up. The face was somewhat familiar, but then, that was the most he could say about his own most days. Familiarity might be overrated.

Familiarity was what most often caused that strange jostling in his mind.

"I thought we could go. I'm afraid you need a new tuxedo. The last evening was, I think, a bit hard on the most recent one."

He found himself nodding, peering into the red pinpoint of sherry colored eyes as if that would somehow clarify something. "Yeah. What did I do to the last one, again?"

That smile, full of small, white, very even teeth. Will would do almost anything for that smile. "Ah, I fear that we had quite a good time after _Violanta_. You seemed to particularly enjoy their confessions of pure love." Yes. A very good time, and he remembered now, or thought he did. It was enough that he tilted his face, and was met by a gentle inclination and the softest of mouths, warm and smooth against his own.

What seemed to be a simple kiss was quite deceptive, and quickly it became something else -- a fire, a fight, a duel of lips and tongues, and yes. Yes, that was exactly what had happened to the last tuxedo, never mind the cynical awareness somewhere in the core of him behind his eyes that he preferred beer to champagne and deck shoes to highly polished black ones.

Strange that it was these moments when it burbled up, speaking to him as if it was the lone opportunity available. Will chose to ignore it as he always did. Instead he laid a hand upon the back of that bent neck, moaning into the taste, the touch of it. He opened his eyes when the kissing stopped, finding himself greeted by the warmest of smiles. "Or perhaps we could skip Jardín Botánico and proceed directly to a more physical form of bliss. Would you like that, Will?"

Yes. Yes, he would, very much so, and he stood slowly from his chair. He was aware that he was the taller of them, and that should place him in a position of power, but somehow that wasn't so. "Maybe we could just be late, Hannibal."

Yes. He could tell that pleased him, the gleam in those eyes settling to a steady banked fire. "Then late we shall be. Come."

Come, and so they walked hand in hand, moving indoors from the terrace and leaving behind the table with the remains of their supper. There was the room where, on occasion, they waltzed, Will feeling ridiculous in the part of his mind that was currently niggling at him. There was the small library where they often read late into the night, Hannibal flipping through websites that interested him while Will worked on small collections of butterflies.

There was the room where they slept, and the cocooning influence of it quieted that faint jostle, made him breathe in deeply. Yes. Here was safety, just as it should be.

"Allow me." Dexterous hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, undid them neatly one by one. He closed his eyes, and time passed in a steady procession of disrobing until he opened them again, not at all surprised to find his bedfellow standing naked before him. One hand swept down, crossing Will's abdomen and caressing over the fish hook scar there that he never thought about, and then they were chest to chest and thigh to thigh, cock to cock.

He stopped thinking.

The touch of fingers became a fine melody slipping upwards over his ribs. One pressed the aureola of a nipple, and then another, and there were fingers lightly plucking at him, as if he were an instrument more than a body. It made him moan and step back. Not an attempt at escape, no; an endeavor to steady himself, and when he felt the silky mass of the duvet on the back of his thighs, he knew that it was accomplished. Another of those moments passed when things seemed to fade from him; when he opened his eyes again, it was to stare up at the ornate mural above him as Hannibal made his way slowly down, down, down. Pomona sprawled above him, one hand delicately plucking grapes from a platter, and Hannibal stretched below him, feasting with careful deliberation upon the length of Will's prick. It was enjoyment enough, delectation such that he sighed, panted, let loose the sounds that grew in him as a response. Carefully, so carefully, and from somewhere came the slickness that lingered nearby whenever they were naked together. Came and found him, slid inside when he parted his thighs, planted his heels, gave _him_ access to all that he had, all that he was.

Once finally he drew away, he rested his head upon Will's hip, eyes gleaming in the dim light, watching the enjoyment as it built in Will's body. Heightened and magnified and made him moan beneath the refined touch of those fingers, the occasional faint nip of teeth. It was a fine and dangerous line, he somehow knew, and yet he could in no way define how.

When Hannibal rose over him, he offered no objection; only acceptance, arms reaching out, one leg bent, the other raised up slightly. The breach, when it came, was an easy glide, and he did not bother keeping his groan of delight behind his teeth. Not when they both enjoyed it so, and the steady glide-thrust-push-pull of every moment rose, escalated until the world, Pomona, Hannibal, all blurred into the faint jarring of memory boxes dancing along beach house walls in his head and the thumb-slide caress over the aching bruise that persisted upon his upper arm.

Rapture was a pool inside of him, dark and welling from somewhere deep, the taint of forbidden knowledge at the core of it. It slid alongside and under his skin, and when he finally brought himself together enough to look around, to seek out Hannibal, he had risen and moved away from the bed. There was something so short-lived about the search for pleasure with him, particularly when Will was left limp and halfway dreaming by it. Still, he came back upon realizing there was movement; returned and leaned over, gifting one of those small, sweet kisses, the ones that were occasionally backed by teeth and accompanied by a bruise-stung pinch and then a warm spreading bliss that nearly took over the entirety of him.

Pomona. Pomona above him, pruning knife in hand, the curved blade slicing into red plums to remove the stones, and he moaned, gave a shudder that was soul deep. "There, there, Will. There, there, my boy, it's all right, just a bad moment, nothing more than a dream. Remember that. Every day is a dream of elysium for you here with me. You shall never feel any desire to leave me, not until it is time for you to go. Tell me you understand."

Dreamy and sick, all at once, a wash of words that made him close his eyes and moan, nauseated. The plums....

"Tell me you understand. Open your eyes, Will, and tell me. Tell me!"

He blinked, and there was Hannibal, Pomona beside him. "I... I understand."

"Tell me you believe."

"I believe."

Pomona was gone with those words, the queasiness washing away into the world, Hannibal's demands drifting into the air with her until both were on the ceiling again and Hannibal rested beside him.

"Hello again."

Hello, and Will's dreams jarred, the boxes rattled. They all settled when he gave a slow, steady smile. "Hi. Are we going to the gardens?"

Small, straight teeth nearly gleamed in the twilight. "I think so. Perhaps we could stop by the tailor's first and have you fitted for a new tuxedo."

That sounded just fine. Will closed his eyes, and everything in his head seemed to settle down. Bad dreams.

It was only bad dreams, and this was reality, this was as things should be.

The smell of honeysuckle drifted in through the windows, and he breathed deeply, soothed by the scent and the faintest breath of salt and sand.

Everything was just fine.

It was all in his head.


End file.
